MRS. HEMANS will supply us with a very sweet poem, suggested by a picture of Poussin, representing a band of youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, on seeing a tomb with the inscription-Et in Arcadia ego.
THEY have wander'd in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;
They have climb'd o'er heath'ry swells,
They have wound thro' forest dells;
Mountain moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow-
What hath stay'd the wanderers now ?
Lo! a grey and rusty tomb,
Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
"I too, shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."
There is many a summer sound
That pale sepulchre around;
Thro' the shade young birds are glancing,
Insect wings in sun streaks dancing;
Glimpses of blue festal skies
Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o'er the turf below
Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not his own
O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under note
Thro' its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day;
Something dimly from those old words felt,
-"I too, shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."
Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth!
Is it thus! that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers and lyres and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?
-No! from that bright hand of morn
Not one link hath yet been torn ;
"Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer bloom,
O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife.
Sir EDWARD L. BULWER will not live as a poet, certainly-perhaps not even as a novelist, though he is secure of immortality as a philosopher, even should he write no more than his England and the English. Nevertheless, he is the author of some poetry that may rank far above the average of versification, and fairly claim a place in any impartial gathering of the best of British minstrelsy.
But there was one at length I met-
I've not forgot the meeting yet!
I loved her at first sight; and though
I fondly loved, I knew not so;
For she was like some saint above,
And seem'd too beautiful to love.
I say then that the fire I felt
Was adoration; and I knelt,
Knelt with a holy zeal that none
Should know but for the Almighty One.
But soon some shades of earthly feeling
Came o'er that pure devotion stealing;
For there are moments when the spirit,
The purest, best, seems to inherit
Some darker feelings of the heart,
The birthright of its grosser part.
'Twas in an hour such as we find
A summer evening leaves behind,
We were alone-with no eye near,
And nought but our ownselves to fear.
The lamp which lit the chamber cast
A ray, like memory's o'er the past,
Which gives all things a sadder hue,
And yet will make them lovelier too.
We lifted ('twas so fair a night)
The curtain that kept out the sight
Of those bless'd orbs that live on high,
Breathing God's glory through the sky.
I gazed upon the scene before me;
And, as its mystery crept o'er me,
My bounding spirit fondly went
Up to its native firmament;
And I exclaim'd, "Oh! wouldst thou, oh!
Wouldst thou not die, if we could
From this earth's dimness, up to share
One of those bright worlds shining there?—
Say wouldst thou not?"-I paused, ashamed
Of the wild wish that I had framed ;
And, casting down my eyes, they met
Her own sweet eyes-I see them yet—
Gently mysterious as they were
The sight was more than mine could bear;
I dared not trust another look,
But where she sat my seat I took.
A tale there was on either cheek;
But we sat mute and could not speak,-
So much of thoughts had evil made
Our voices of themselves afraid.
And months have gone since then-and there
She sits with that sweet sorrowing air,
More loose than wont her golden hair;
And in those eyes, downcast and dim,
Some tears, like dew-drops, trembling swim.
Her cheek is on her hand reclined,
And paler than you hope to find;
And by her side the book, the flowers,
So cherish'd in more careless hours,
The casket whose lone cells contain
Those letters read to read again,
And aye bedew'd with precious tears-
What, gentle lady, are thy fears?
Nay, canst thou idly dream that he,
So loved, will prove untrue to thee?—
What! false to such an angel face-
False to such tenderness and grace?
No; though he stray'd from all beside,
Ne'er will he quit thy gentle side:
He swore so once-he swears so now,
And Heaven be witness to the vow?
Friendship's Offering for 1840 presents us with a poem by T. K. HERVEY, entitled The Renegade's Daughter, and which proves that time has served only to mature his powers. Our readers have been already introduced to many of his writings, which are remarkable for their elegance, having only the single fault of a too great profusion of similes. His fancy is somewhat too sportive, but it is vivid, graceful and original.
METHINKS my mother's voice to-night
Is whispering through the whispering leaves;
I hear it often by this light,
In the long summer eves,
A pleasant voice, though mournful quite ;—
To-night, methinks, it grieves!
The vision is not what it was,
When memory seems her form to see;
She looketh sadly-and, alas!
(And yet this cannot be,)
My mother's shadow seems to pass
Betwixt my sire and me!
And when, as erst, I lift my hand,
To lay it on my father's heart,
I feel as 'twere an icy band,
That makes the pulses start;
And there I see my mother stand,
And wave us two apart!
I go!-A fond and faithful heart
Hath waited for thy daughter long,-
To play for him the gentle part,
She played our halls among.
Hark! even now,-oh, memory's art!-
Methought I heard her song!
Her happy song of other days,
Bright days!-my father! didst thou hear?
Oh! hours and hours, her low, sweet lays
Are murmuring in mine ear!
Thine answer then was ever praise ;—
Thou answerest with a tear!
Oh! fling the foulness from thy breast,
The turban from thy christian brow,
That I upon its native nest
May lay my head, as now,
And find-what now I find not-rest;
I cannot, for thy vow!
Farewell! no kindred heart I leave
In our old palace of the sea
My childhood's home!-I may not grieve,
Το go from it and thee.
Oh! come thou home, some quiet eve,
To God-my love—and me!
A sound, as if a spirit's wing
Had struck a sigh from out the string,
Pass'd dimly through the hush'd saloon,
And died away beneath the moon!
From a poem entitled the Sexton's Daughter, by JOHN STERLING— a large contributor to Blackwood's Magazine.
Sad seem'd the strong grey-headed man,
Of lagging thought and careful heed;
He shaped his life by rule and plan,
And hoarded all beyond his need.
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